Reasons Behind What I Do
by ThisSong'sNotToHurtYou
Summary: They pretend not to notice when Dean finishes half a bottle of scotch before dinner. They pretend not to notice how he's covered in unexplainable bruises. They pretend not to notice he started smoking. With Dean, there's a lot of pretending. Wincest
1. Prologue

Prologue

Sam doesn't talk about things. He wants to be strong for his older brother. He tries to disguise it. But you can read everything in his green-brown eyes. Dean doesn't like to talk. At all. Talking about feelings is impossible. You can't read anything in those green eyes. He hides behind military precision. He drowns the pain down in alcohol and sarcasm. That's just who he is. And nobody can tell that anything is wrong. At least that's what he thinks.

Bobby pretends not to notice when Dean drinks his way through half a bottle of scotch before dinner. Knows if he asks the hunter what's wrong, he'll get an answer along the lines of "Nothing," in that gruff tone of Dean's that signals that he wants to be left alone. He also knows that if he were to ask Sam, Sam wouldn't know. But Sam is more observant than Bobby gives him credit for. It's his brother for chrissakes. He notices when Dean starts the bottle. And he sure as hell notices when Dean finishes it off. But by then, Dean can only be described as what seems to be happy. In other words, drunk. His cheeks are flushed, his movements animated. He's retelling the embellished story of the last demon they ganked. Sam can't help but snort at the exaggerations coming out of his brother's mouth. He can't remember the last time he's seen Dean this bad. Though, Dean was always good at hiding things like that.

There was a time when Sam thought his brother was invincible. That was before he went to Stanford. That was before he realized that everyone around him was flawed. Including Bobby, his father. And most of all, Dean. He knows his brother's got problems. Hell, he's got a lot of them himself. But Dean? Dean NEVER talks. NEVER. And that's got to weigh heavily on someone. Especially someone like Dean. Because Dean likes to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Sam should've known from the moment Dean showed up at Stanford to bring him back into hunting that his older brother was a train wreck. It's just like Dean to be a masochist, take all that pain and lock it up deep inside. Even while they were searching for John, there was never any pain. There was an urgency, but Dean never seemed upset, angry, anything of the sort. And sure, maybe that's his way of coping. But it's not healthy, and neither is the amount of alcohol that Dean's consumed in the last four hours. Not that Sam NOTICED or anything.

Dean knows that his gestures are getting grander. He's having a hard time co-ordinating his movements. And maybe, just maybe it was a bad idea to finish off that bottle of Scotch. He feels the heady buzz of alcohol, his skin is flushed and hot. He hears the slight slur to his words, and he knows that he is severely exaggerating on the story he's telling Bobby. He vaguely remembers mentioning something about explosions. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the fact that he's drunk is nagging at him. But he doesn't let it bother him. Whatever, everything feels numb, and numb is better. Better than worrying about Sammy, and everything, and Cas and…just numb is better than FEELING. Dean doesn't like to feel. Feeling is a girly, pussy thing. Dean can't stand it. That's why he doesn't talk, even though he could be called a hypocrite because he ALWAYS tries to get Sam to tell him what's wrong. He knows he should call it quits now, go to bed, try to get a decent sleep. But he's just so HAPPY, and so glad to be at Bobby's, what he considers home…

"Want another beer?" Bobby asks, when Dean's finished his elaborate story. His head jerks up, and his green eyes narrow, attempting to focus his blurry vision on the older hunter.

"Me?" He asks, gesturing at himself, wildly waving his hand around. Bobby rolls his eyes.

"No, ya idjit. I was talking to your brother," Bobby says, and both their heads turn to look expectantly at Sam. The youngest hunter shakes his head.

"No, Thanks though Bobby. We really should be getting to bed. It was a long trip here, and I'm sure Dean and I could both use the sleep."

"Alright then. Have a good night boys," Bobby says, pretending not to notice the way Sam helps Dean up, pretending not to notice the way Dean staggers and almost stumbles as they start to walk up the stairs. Pretending not to notice as Sam's grip tightens to keep his older brother upright. It's when they've gotten up the stairs that Dean finally realizes what Sammy's doing. He tries to shove his brother away, and only succeeds in losing his balance and falling against the wall, taking the brunt of the impact to his shoulder.  
>"Sammy, I'm fine," he says, blaming the heavy slur in his words on the wave of exhaustion and pain he suddenly feels. He doesn't let Sam know that the hit to his shoulder hurt more than it should have.<p>

"Dean," Sam says, though the name is more of a breath. Dean can hear the exasperation written in that one word though.

"Bitch," He says, a lazy grin spreading across his features.

"Jerk," Sam retorts with a roll of his eyes. But even drunk and tired as he is, Dean can see that he's won as Sam's lips tilt up at the corners.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

And Dean regains his balance, pushes himself off the wall, and staggers into the bedroom, collapsing face first onto the bed. Sam shakes his head, choosing not to say anything as his brother falls into a deep slumber. It doesn't take long, and Dean is snoring, lost to the world. The smile that crosses Sam's features is a gentle one, as he crosses the room to the bed and pulls Dean's shoes off, before grabbing a blanket and laying it over his brother, pulling it up and around Dean's shoulders.. It's the little things that Sam does for Dean. Sam knows that Dean will do anything for him, but what Dean doesn't see is the little things that Sam does for him. At least not until after the fact.

Sam doesn't crawl in his own bed. Instead, he goes back downstairs to Bobby, who's flipping through a few ancient books.

"Something's wrong," he says, his tone concerned.

"Ya think?" Bobby says, his tone as open and harsh as possible. Sam flinches. He's been so focused on his own problems and keeping them bottled up that he failed to notice something was wrong with Dean. He hangs his head.

"I should've known earlier." He says, ashamed of himself. His self-centeredness.

"Didn't say that," Bobby says gruffly, and Sam looks up to see the caring and concern in Bobby's eyes.  
>"Your brother's been fighting his demons for a long time. It's only just gotten worse. I almost didn't believe it myself."<p>

Sam nods, still wrapped up in the fact that he feels like a terrible brother and a terrible friend for not noticing. But Bobby leaves no room for self-pity.

"Sam, why'd you come here anyways?" He asks. Abrupt as always.

"What do you mean?" Sam asks. Bobby gives him that look. That all-knowing one.

"I haven't seen you guys, heard from you guys in months. Not that I'm complaining, but you show up on my doorstep unannounced. What's going on Sam?" Bobby asks. He may be getting up there in years, but he's not stupid. He knows when something's going on. He's known the boys for so long. Sam shakes his head, holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Honestly Bobby, I don't know. Dean said we should come see you, stay with you for a while." His voice is cautious. He doesn't know if he's said too much or not. Bobby nods and the movement is somewhat dismissive.

"How long are you planning on staying?"

Sam shrugs helplessly. Bobby sighs, rolls his eyes.

"Never mind, I'll ask Dean tomorrow morning. Idjit," Bobby mutters under his breath. The familiar, father-like tone of voice made Sam smile.

"Sam, go to sleep, I'm sure you had a long drive. We'll talk more tomorrow,"

Sam nods, and trudges up the stairs once more, lingering at Dean's doorway for a moment, remembering when they were kids and they had to share a bed. Dean was always a calming presence. If Sam woke up from a nightmare, or in a cold sweat of terror, Dean always awoke seconds later, soothing, calming Sam. Dean was good at that. Hell, Dean had sold his soul for Sam. And that wasn't anything Sam was forgetting soon.

They've been through a lot. Together. Dean's been his idol. While Dean was off being Daddy's perfect solider, Sam was busy looking up to Dean, trying to model himself after Dean. Of course when he saw how Dean was bending over backwards for John, and Sam knew he couldn't do the same. He wasn't ready to jump when John told him to, he had to leave. Because it killed him to see his brother treated like a little lapdog, not a human, not like John's son. Yes, John was their father. But he never did a GOOD job of being one. That was one of the reasons Sam left. He just couldn't handle it anymore. Seeing Dean like that. The other reason was partially because he wanted out. He had hopes and dreams like any other boy. And hunting demons, werewolves, vampires, that was never part of his dreams. He wanted to be normal.

Sam blinks, shakes himself out of his thoughts, and realizes he's still hovering at Dean's door. It's a bad idea. He's concerned, he wants to know what's going on. But Dean's going to be even less forthcoming if he wakes up to see Sam lurking there. So he goes back to his own room, takes a minute to strip off his jeans, his shirt, and crawl into bed, pulling the covers over his exposed skin. Bobby's right. It's been a long day. And what he needs right now is just to sleep. It doesn't take long and he's dropped into a dream filled slumber.

Dean's the first one up. Which is kind of surprising because he's pretty sure Bobby doesn't really SLEEP anymore. He pushes the blanket back, not remembering crawling under it in the first place, and pauses with a wince. His shoulder hurts a lot more than it should from that fall last night. He pulls himself into a sitting position. And there's another one of the symptoms. He's slow; his body is aching and stiff. But he tries to pretend it's not as he gets out of bed. He feels an ache in the soles of his feet as he rests his full weight on them. Someone took off his shoes, he remembers enough to know that he sure as hell didn't. His walk to the bathroom is slow, a combination of trying to stay quiet, and trying to stop his aching joints from hurting. He undresses slowly, shrugging off his plaid shirt delicately, before inching up his t-shirt. His fingers stumble over his belt when he tries to undo it, fumbles with the button and the fly. He lets them drop to the ground, and steps out of them ever so carefully. Then he looks at his shoulder in the mirror. A large dark bruise is blossoming over his shoulder. Now he knows that the doctors aren't lying. But Sam, Bobby, they can't find out. He can't let them know something is wrong. Not yet at least.

He gets into the shower, the water scalding, pricking at sensitive skin. The heat seeping deep into his joints. His body's already crying out for alcohol. Alcohol numbs the pain that he's feeling. The ache. He knows it would be all too easy to blame his headache and slightly foggy vision on a hangover. But he knows. He knows all the symptoms. He read the brochure, he had listened to the doctor. He didn't expect them to kick in this fast though. He makes quick work of the shower, as carefully and gently as he can, before he shuts the water off, wraps a towel around his waist and pads back to his room, digging through his bag for a change of clothes. He pulls out a black long sleeved shirt and a pair of well worn jeans. He needs to go out and work on the Impala. He may be in pain, but it's the Impala. It's his baby. A few aching joints, a huge bruise, and the promise of eventual death isn't enough to keep him away.

He grabs two beers from the fridge, pauses, grabs a third. Last night it took a full bottle of scotch to stop the pain. And beer is a lot weaker than scotch. So he figures it'll take a lot of alcohol and a lot of determination. He has to appear okay to Bobby and Sam. Especially Sam. His Sammy. He carries the beers in one hand, necks clamped between his fingers as he opens the door, flees to the garage. The Impala is sitting there in her…injured glory, and Dean sets to work. Because it's his baby. And he needs something aside from alcohol and determination to help him focus.

Sam hears when Dean wakes up, goes to shower, goes downstairs. But he doesn't get out of bed. He doesn't let Dean know he's up. He just needs like…twenty minutes to think. Think about what's going on. It hurts him that Dean won't talk to him, though it's always been that way. He knows that Dean always wants to protect him. Protection for Dean, is not only a duty. It's Dean's life. He thinks that if he can keep those around him sheltered from pain, sheltered from the bad, sheltered from evil, that they'll be safe.

After Dean's gone downstairs, there's a few moments of silence, then Sam hears the front door open and close, and for a minute, his heart's in his throat. Is Dean leaving him behind? God, he wouldn't know what to do if that happened. Taking a deep breath, calming himself, he tells himself that Dean would never leave. They're too co-dependant on each other. It borders on unhealthy. But they've spent so many years of their lives together, being their only company and companions. And do be honest, Sam would never find someone more emotionally connected to then Dean. That's just how they work.

Sam lets out a long sigh, turns on his side, and pulls the blanket closer around his chin. It's almost nice, knowing that in fifteen minutes, they're not going to be leaving on a hunt. But it's also disconcerting. He's surprised that Dean's hatred of sitting still hasn't gotten the better of him. Sam drags himself out of bed, casting the blanket aside, and standing up, stretching his arms over his head. The sky is bright, sun streaming in through the blinds, illuminating and warming patches of his skin. He picks up his jeans off the floor, grabs a v-neck t-shirt from his bag, and wanders to the washroom. It's his usual routine, offset by the fact that they're at Bobby's. And he's not about to go anywhere. He showers, puts on fresh clothes, and wanders downstairs, starting the morning routine off by making coffee. He digs through Bobby's fridge, trying to find something easy to make. He settles on making scrambled eggs and bacon. One of the few things that he knows how to cook. He peels off extra strips of bacon. Dean always eats a lot. He turns on the elements, pulls out pans. While everything starts cooking, he pours himself a cup of coffee and waits for Bobby.

When Bobby first enters the kitchen, he doesn't understand why there is bacon and eggs cooking. He has to pause and think about it for a moment.

"Hey Bobby," Sam says, waving at the older man. Bobby jumps, but pretends he didn't. Having the boys around throws him off a bit. He shakes his head.

"Mornin'" he says, pulling open the fridge. His brow wrinkles as he observes the contents, and goes to grab a jug of milk.

"Helped yourself to some beers this morning?" Bobby asks. Sam's flipping bacon, and he pauses to look at Bobby.

"What do you mean?" He asks, a look of confusion settling on his features. Bobby tries to ignore the tug in his gut, and shakes his head.

"Nothing," he says gruffly. Sam doesn't question any further.

"You know, I'm almost done. I think Dean's outside if you want to get him," Sam says. Bobby nods, and walks out the front door. Sam likes the little bit of silence. But it also gives him time, yet again, to wonder what's going on.

Bobby has his suspicions. He knows who took his beer. But he doesn't want to think about it. But it's nine o'clock in the morning for gods sake, and there were THREE beers missing. Three. And that's not something that can be justified. He walks over to the garage. Sure enough, Dean's working on the Impala. Bobby notices something different in the way Dean's moving. More stiffly or slowly perhaps. And if he worked on the Impala cautiously before, he seemed to be working even more carefully now.

"Dean," Bobby's tone is harsh, and Dean's head jerks up, connects with the door of the Impala, and a deep groan is ripped from his lips.

"Fuck, you can't sneak up on me like that Bobby," Dean said, his hand running through his hair, trying to find the sensitive spot. Yeah, there was another bruise forming.

"Sorry, just felt the need to remind you how stupid it is to be drinking this early in the morning," Bobby says, crossing his arms.

"You're an idjit," he follows Dean's guilty gaze to the three, very empty bottles of beer in the corner of the garage.

"You trying to kill yourself? Come inside, Sam's made breakfast," Bobby says. Dean nods, internally thanking the man for not lecturing him. They walk inside in an amicable silence, Dean thinking about food.

The instant he walks inside, that all changes. A wave of nausea rolls through him, and he gags, hand flying to his mouth. But it's bacon and eggs. His favourite food. Bobby and Sam's eyes both fly to him, concerned. But he can't be bothered, he runs to the bathroom, and collapses in front of the toilet, arms on either side as he heaves up bile. There's not much in his stomach except for alcohol. When he finally finishes retching, he catches his breath, and knows he'll pay for the rather epic drop to his knees with two huge bruises. He looks up to see Sam standing in the bathroom doorway, a overly concerned look on his face that reminds Dean a bit of a sad puppy.

"Are you okay Dean?" Sam asks. Dean nods and Sam's face brightens.

"Just a bad hangover." Dean struggles to his feet and grabs his toothbrush. Squirting toothpaste on it, he runs it under the water and brushes his teeth quickly, brushes away the nasty taste.

"Do you still want breakfast or…" Sam asks, the 'or are you feeling too shitty' hanging there in the rift of his words.

"Did you cook any extra bacon," Dean grins. Sam smiles back at him, and everything is normal again.

"Of course I did. I know how much you like to eat."

"Bitch," Dean says, rolling his eyes and punching his brother on the shoulder good-naturedly.

"Jerk," Sam retorts, his grin broad.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Breakfast is a strained and quiet affair. Sam and Bobby are still very unsure of how Dean is really feeling. Seeing as the he only picks at his eggs and bacon. He maybe finishes half of the meal. Eats only two pieces of bacon. A completely out of character act. He then has to hide a yawn, but he goes to the coffee maker, pours himself a mug of coffee. Black.

"What are you looking at?" He demands, raising an eyebrow and narrowing his eyes. That's when Sam and Bobby both realize they've been staring at Dean for the past fifteen minutes and they haven't even been thinking about it. They're just both concerned for his well-being.

"Nothing," Bobby says gruffly. Sam just looks down at his coffee cup. Sam can tell he's hurting them. Not on purpose of course. But he's being defensive. It's what he does.

"I'm fine guys. Really," He says with a firm nod of his head.

"But if you'll excuse me, I'm going to keep working on the Impala," he sets the cup of coffee on the counter and walks away. Not fast enough to keep from hearing Bobby tell Sam something.

"There's something wrong with your brother boy. And I'll be damned if I know,"

And dammit, he thought he was hiding it better than that. But, he supposes, it's pretty hard to hide something so huge. His head is still aching from where he hit it on the Impala when Bobby surprised him. And now, along with the bruise on his shoulder, and his already aching, tired body, his knees are killing him, and he knows that the bruises on them won't be pretty. And right now he's just so MAD at himself. He doesn't want to do something productive. He's too angry that he's almost seeing red. He wants to destroy something, rip something down.

Of all the people in the world that could have something so wrong with them, why him. He wonders this as he lays down his tools and takes a step back from the Impala. He's on edge, and it's not going to help if he decides to spontaneously take a crowbar to his baby. He knows he should go for a drive or something. Just ANYTHING to relieve the stress. He leaves the garage, slams the door shut, and is on his way back to the house when he sees it. It's John's truck. The one he used for hunting. And a shot of inspiration runs through Dean's veins. An then he's creeping back into the house like when he was younger and he would sneak back into the hotels, hoping his dad wouldn't notice. The keys weren't on the hook by the door. Of course not. Why would Bobby keep something in such an obvious place.

He could hear the murmurs of Sam and Bobby from the office/living room/whatever the hell you wanted to call it. He doesn't want to risk going in there. But he needs to find those keys. Though that's probably impossible to do in the chaos of Bobby's house. So he decides to go straight to the source. Even though that means he's basically giving them another reason to wonder. Entering the room, he interrupts the conversation, paying no heed at the incredulous looks that the two of him give him.

"Bobby, where are the keys for dad's truck?" he asks. Bobby raises and eyebrow.

"Dean, I was just asking your brother, how long are you boys planning on staying here?"

Dean stares at Bobby, a flicker of laughter and annoyance bursting in his green eyes. His lips twist up in a smirk.

"Until I can afford a house," he says. The look of shock that crosses Bobby's face is almost priceless.

"So where are those keys?" He asks again, abruptly changing the subject again. Bobby's still gaping at him, and Sam is staring at him with those curious eyes, and he knows he's going to get grilled about it later. Maybe after some liquid courage. He wants so badly to be drinking again. He's not going to lie. This has been an excuse to hide behind his alcoholism.

"Why do you need them?" Bobby asks, after he's finally regained his ability to speak. Dean crosses his arms.

"Bobby, we can do this two ways. You can give me the keys or I can rip apart this house looking for them. Either way, I end up with the keys." Dean says logically. He's cool-headed, even though he's annoyed by Bobby's need to know what he's doing, where he's going. He's not a teenager. He's a grown man with problems. Problems that he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Dean," It's Sammy this time, and Dean wants to groan in exasperation.

"What do you want Sam?" Dean growls. He sees the keys, perched haphazardly on the corner of a book. Too far out of reach for him to grab easily. Not without going through Bobby and Sam first. And the way the two are standing. It's like they're a defensive wall.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam's voice is cajoling, calming. He's speaking to Dean like Dean is a wild horse that needs to be gentled, tamed, convinced into trusting it's new master. It's not going to work.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I might not want to talk about it?" He asks, unable to hide the dark edge to his voice.

"Just hand me the keys. I need to go for a car ride. I'll have my phone with me if you come across anything urgent." He says. Sam, good Sammy, caves first, snaps the keys off the book before Bobby can stop him, and tosses them to Dean. Dean almost misses catching them, but he manages it.

"Thanks Sammy," he says, turning on his heel and moving to leave the room.

"Come back in one piece, Dean,"

Dean pretends he doesn't hear that comment, pretends it doesn't bother him like it really does, as he spins the keys around his finger and walks out the front door, letting it slam shut behind him. Okay, maybe he doesn't LET it slam shut as opposed to slamming it shut on purpose. But when he walks to the car, he hasn't felt this good in a while. Not since he found out. He shrugs it off, unlocks the car and gets inside, turning it on. It doesn't feel as good as the Impala. Doesn't sound the same as the Impala. But it's something to drive. Something to get him away from the oppressive atmosphere of Bobby's house. The oppressive feel of Bobby and Sam's worry. He's fine, thank you very-fucking-much. And they don't need to know any differently. He peels out of the driveway, and it feels so damn good to be driving again. He's going stir-crazy. He's the man who can't sit still. That's part of the reason there's no way in hell he'd make it through school.

For a while, he's just driving. There's no end in sight. He's just going. The tank is full. It makes him wonder if Bobby's been driving it. But that doesn't even make sense. Whatever. It doesn't matter. John is gone and it's not like anyone else is using it.

When the anger finally fades, Dean pulls over. No longer fuelled by adrenaline and rage, he feels broken. Leaning his head against the steering wheel, he blinks rapidly, and swallows hard, denying the fact that it feels like he's about to cry. He doesn't know what to do. He can keep it from them forever, but he wants to do this on his own. He doesn't want them to look at him differently. He just wants to be okay.

* * *

><p>Sam spends the afternoon checking out their financial situation. Seeing as Dean spontaneously decided he wanted to buy a house. He's not going to deny that he's confused as hell about it. But Bobby pulls him aside, and shows him a stash of money the John had left for them. It's an impressive amount, but it's not enough to buy a house. They could commit some more credit card fraud, seeing as they've already done that HOW OFTEN? It's not like it would be a change. They don't have bank accounts, they don't have cheques or anything. So…they're lost. They don't have enough to buy a house.<p>

Once he's finished looking into things, he finally turns to Bobby.

"Dad left us a lot, but there's just not enough," He finally says. Bobby nods.

"Ever heard of a job?" Bobby says, looking up from the book he's reading through to throw in his two cents. It's a brilliant idea, except for Sam doesn't have a very practical working skill set. At least Dean could go get a job as a mechanic. But Sam? Sam didn't finish law school, He hasn't really done anything then hunting. And huge groups of people make him feel awkward. He does have one thing on his side though. There was that time when he pretended to be Keith. And he bartended. He could do that.

"I could bartend," he said musingly. Bobby snorted, but when Sam looked up, the older man was nodding.

"But I need to make a resume," he says. He's never done that. Now he's wondering even more what's caused Dean the desire to live this normal life. There are so many things running around like crazy in the world, but Dean now just wants to hole up at Bobby's and live out the rest of their lives? It just doesn't make sense.

"Bobby, I'm going to get some fresh air," he says, grabs his gun from the kitchen counter, and is out the door in the blink of an eye. He needs to do something to help him focus, and though it's normally a Dean thing, target practise seems like a viable option. He doesn't feel focused though, until he's got that gun pointed at the target, and he's shooting. It suddenly feels somewhat normal, and the stress of what's going on leaves him in a rush.

* * *

><p>When Dean's finished his moment of emotional breakdown, he realizes he just wants to be drowning again. So he drives to the nearest bar, parks the car, and gets out. He forgets who's car he's driving for a minute, forgets that he's Dean Winchester, and when he enters the bar, he doesn't expect the hush that falls over it. That's when he remembers that he's been to hell and back, he's been beaten up by Lucifer. He remembers that he's done so much that he shouldn't be alive, and now he's standing here. And people recognize him. He ignores the stares as he walks up to the bar and asks for a beer. One beer flows into two, two flows into three, and three flows into more. Until his little bit of quiet is interrupted by some idiot.<p>

"Shouldn't you be dead?" The guy scoffs at him. Dean's light-headed, he's flushed, but he's NOT drunk. And he certainly doesn't feel like dealing with idiots today. He turns to the guy, who doesn't look more than eighteen or nineteen.

"Shouldn't you run home to mommy?" Dean asks sarcastically, before taking another sip of his beer and turning back to the counter.

"I'm talking to you man!" and damn the kid is persistant. He claps a hand down on Dean's shoulder, and tries to spin the chair around. Dean winches, the kid hit his bruised shoulder.

"And I'm telling you to go away," Dean says, his voice a threatening growl as he turns back to the kid.

"Shouldn't I be the one telling you to go away? You must be a demon and demons aren't allowed in places like this."

Insolent bastard.

"Kid, I've warned you once, I've warned you twice, You don't—" he's hit by a splash of holy water. And that's it. He hauls back and hits the kid straight in the nose. The kid staggers back, hand flying to his face.

"You broke my nose," the kid says, and a little smile flits across Dean's features.

"Yeah, I did." He says flatly. And then the kid's coming at him. All in all, the little 5'11" little monster didn't land a lot of hits. But he lands enough that Dean's having trouble walking, and his body has settled into a dull ache. But it's nothing to the mess that Dean leaves of the kid lying on the floor. He warned the kid, not his fault he didn't listen. He slaps extra money down on the counter and tells the bartender that it's for his troubles before he goes, taking his beer with him out to the truck. He leans back against the hood of the truck, wincing as it hits his aching, bruised back. Stupid kids thinking they ran around and ruled the world. He knocked the rest of the beer back before getting back into the truck. He stops by the gas station on the way back, buys a pack of cigarettes and a cheap lighter. If life is already killing him, why not try harder.

When he gets back to Bobby's, it's finally clicked that he's been gone for almost the whole day. And while it's dinner time and the only thing he's eaten has been bacon and eggs, he just wants to go shower, and then go to bed. He won't be able to sneak past Bobby and Sam, so he settles on making quite the racket as he takes off his shoes and his jacket. Bobby and Sam look up from their burgers.

"Jesus Christ Dean, what happened, it looks like you got run over by a truck," Bobby says, surprisingly verbal about the whole thing.

"Just an idiot who had too much time on his hands," Dean says with a shrug.

"We saved you dinner," Sam said hopefully, gesturing to the plate that was sitting untouched. The burger looked fantastic, but Dean…he just couldn't eat.

"Thanks, I think I'm just going to take a shower and go to bed though. I'm tired," He says. His words for 'leave me alone, I don't want to talk about it.' Sam's face falls, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say even Bobby looked a bit disappointed as he walked past them, up the stairs, and to the washroom.

He stripped as quickly as his body would allow, not bothering to categorize the bruises on his body. Too many is all. Too many bruises, all too tender, too painful. He should probably go to the doctor. See about treatments. It's the first time Dean Winchester doesn't know what to do, or how to bullshit his way through it. The water is soothing to his bones, his joints, his body, and when the tension has dropped out of him and the water is running cold, he shuts it off, wraps a towel around himself and goes back to his room.

Sam starts up the stairs with Dean's plate before he loses courage. It's been getting harder and harder for him to confront his brother lately. Because he's overwhelmed with the need to protect. He wants to hold Dean close and keep him from the evils of the world like Dean's done for him for so many years. Dean's door is partially open, and Sam peers through the crack. He tries to hide the gasp that escapes his lips when he sees Dean. Dean is in pain and that, that hurts him. Because Dean is strong. Nobody can beat up his big brother. But seeing the bruises on Dean's body. How they're angry and dark, blossoming across his skin, it scares Sam. Because he knows. He knows there's something going on. He looks at Dean with those puppy eyes of his and knocks on the door. Dean jumps, and turns to him, fury in his eyes.

"So what, you're spying on me now?" The words are bitter.

"Dean. Are you sick?" Sam can barely make the words leave his lips. A dark laugh escapes from Dean, and his eyes narrow.

"And if I was? What would you do then?"

**A/N: Any ideas yet? You'll probably find out in the next chapter or two. I don't know how out of characters my boys sound, I hope they're not terrible. I'm shocked I've actually had enough steam to get three chapter out in three days. Thanks all for the reviews and for reading! Love you all.**


	4. Chapter 3

"Save you," Sam wants to say. It's what he longs to say. But he still side-railed by the fact that Dean just admitted to him that he's sick. Dean is SICK. There's a million questions running through Sam's head.

What are you sick with?

Have you seen a doctor?

Why are there so many bruises?

Are you on medication?

But he sees the look in Dean's eyes. That shut off look. Dean's gone. His emotions hidden behind a wall. A wall that Sam is longing to break through. He just wants to wrap his arms around Dean and bring his older brother close to him. Because Dean is always protecting, and now it's Sam's turn. But Sam never gets the chance. Because Dean is grabbing the plate from him, propelling him from the room, and slamming the door. And Sam is left feeling lonely, abandoned, like a poor little puppy. Sometimes it feels like Dean is ice, and Sam is the sun. But the only thing that he can't melt is Dean. And that hurts. Because all he wants to do is reach out for his brother. To reassure his brother that he's there.

* * *

><p>Time flies by. Sam pretends that the incident with him and Dean never happened. He pretends that he never saw the bruises, pretends he never saw the agony in Dean's eyes. He's posed the idea of getting a job to Dean, and Dean joins him in the hunt. Dean's a good mechanic and he finds a job quickly. And Sam? Well Sam seems to be what they're looking for at the bar, so they hire him. They both settle into lives where they work full time. Settle into lives where they're pretending nothing is wrong with Dean.<p>

Every since that day, Sam's convinced Bobby to drop it. Bobby raised an eyebrow, but took the advice. Dean's less on edge now that they don't ask. They let him drink himself into oblivion. He doesn't really get drunk now. His tolerance has hit an all time high. But Sam is still noticing that Dean doesn't eat a lot. He's tired often. And he sees the bruises. Nothing escapes his eyes. It's his brother, and he'd have to be a complete idiot not to notice.

Dean's not going to sit there and lie. Every day he's getting more and more exhausted. The bruises are coming easier now. Sometimes from light physical contact like hugs from Sam, high-fives from the guys at work. And he knows it's bad. But he knows what's wrong and he's not just going to go to the doctors. Even if they do have some "cure" for him. And he can't bring himself to tell Sam. Maybe it's because Sam's already had to live without him for a year, and he knows that it killed Sam. And maybe it's because he thinks he deserves it. He doesn't see the hero that other people see when they look at him. He sees a damaged kid with daddy issues inside the body of a man. And in his mind, he's not something worth saving. In his mind, he'll always be the sacrifice.

He's considered moving to some place where no one knows his name. He loves Bobby like a father, which is part of the reason he moved back here. But now? Now he wishes he had some anonymity. Because the guys he works with at the garage, they all recognize him as that guy who beat that kid in the bar up. And a lot of people recognize him and Sam as John Winchester's kids. And sometimes he just thinks it would be easier to go unnoticed. He's made friends sure, but…if they find out what's wrong…he just…he doesn't want their pity stares. He doesn't want their condolences.

* * *

><p>They've been with Bobby for a year now. It's kind of crazy. They've actually spent the most amount of time in one place ever. Well…that they can remember. They've actually started to put down roots. They've opened bank accounts. Sam remembers when they went in, asking to open accounts. She looked at them both and asked if they wanted to open a joint account. Dean scoffed, but Sam of course, was polite, explaining that they're brothers. She just nods, smiles a little smile of hers, and both Sam and Dean leave confused. They don't understand where it comes from. They're so painfully not gay that it's almost funny. Though Sam has noticed Dean touches him more. Whether it's to tap him on the shoulder lightly, mess up his hair, give him a hug. Lately, Dean's been giving hugs. Frail, gentle ones. And Sam wonders yet again if he should be worrying more than he is. Because before Dean got sick, with whatever he has, he used to give the best, biggest hugs ever. Sam at least, feels he can breathe again. It's been nice, spending time with Bobby and Dean without hunting. It's like they're a family. Dysfunctional as they are.<p>

When Sam and Dean both take steps back to look at the money they've saved, they're both surprised. They've got more than enough for a small house and all the utilities. So they inform Bobby that they're going to find a place and move out. Bobby's a little sad to see them go, but he's glad they're at least still living in the same city. The boys find a nice place together. And little by little they start to piece together why everyone thinks their gay. They do appear to be a couple. Hell, they're buying a house together. They move into their new place, furnish it simply. It's nothing beautiful, but they're both proud of it.

It scares Dean how fast they've gotten used to such a normal, safe life. He likes the ability to relax. When he was hunting, he couldn't so much as breathe without looking over his shoulder. Now, even though he keeps his gun on his hip at all times, he can actually breathe. He's not worried about some demon trying to kill him or Sammy. He's not worried about the apocalypse. He likes it. Though he's been doing a bit of hunting on the side. He hasn't told Sam. But some days, he'll call in sick to work, take the Impala, and do some hunting. But those days, when he gets home, he's overtired, and literally sick.

When they've finally finished making the house a home. Stripping out the carpet and putting in hardwood, painting the walls, repairing what needs to be repaired. And the boys have got to say, the house looks great. It was a lot of work, and yeah, the floors did cost a bit more than they wanted to pay. But now they've got their own place. So they move into their respective rooms.

* * *

><p>It's their first time having dinner in the new place. And for old times sake, Sam brought Dean a bacon cheeseburger and fries, and, instead of his typical salad, brought himself one too. Dean's not home from work yet, the Impala's not in the driveway which is odd. Dean's always home by now. But Sam shrugs it off and sets out the food on plates. Then the phone rings. Sam grabs it, hits the talk button, assuming it's Dean.<p>

"Hello?" his voice is rushed.

"Is this Sam?" The voice on the other end of the line asks, it sounds vaguely familiar, and Sam is suddenly confused. This isn't Dean…

"Who's asking?" his voice suddenly defensive.

"Dean's here, he passed out. You're like the only person he talks about. So I looked through his phone to find the number," the other voice says calmingly, and slightly dismissively.

"Where's here?" Sam asks, he's already back at the front door, struggling into his jacket and shoving his feet into the first pair of shoes he sees.

"He's at the garage," the other voice says.

"Look, dude, Sam, whatever. He's waking up. Just get your ass over here and pick him up, he can't drive home," and then the line is dead. Sam drops the phone like it burned him, grabs the keys for his car, and is out the door in a matter of minutes. Sam, the man who never breaks the speed limit, is suddenly speeding down every street, and running almost every red light he hits. When it comes to Dean, there are things that are of more importance than the law.

He ends up outside of the garage, and he has to take a few deep breaths to steady himself before he can actually get out of the car. Or even walk for that matter. He walks into the garage, knowing his face is a cross between a look of panic and a look of rationalization. Dean is sitting on one of the chairs in the waiting room. He's leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands. Another man is standing beside him, and moves forward as Sam enters.

"You Sam?" he asks. Sam nods, recognizing the voice as the guy who was on the phone.

"He's not doing so good. Talked to the boss and he said Dean could have a few days off. But man, get him in to see a doctor or something," he says with a nod. Dean finally speaks, and his voice is hoarse and tired.

" 'M fine," he says. His tone is far from reassuring though, so Sam just looks at him for a moment.

"Dean," he says gently. His older brother looks up at him, and it's only then that Sam realizes how bad Dean really looks. He's got circles so dark under his eyes that they look like bruises. The furrow between his brows has deepened, his shoulders are tense. He looks exhausted, and Sam wonders how he's been sleeping.

"Sammy, I don't need to go to the hospital. I don't need to see a doctor. I'm fine." He says, struggling to get to his feet. Sam is quick on his feet, and has his arm wrapped around Dean in a moment, supporting him. Dean lets out a frustrated growl and tries to shake Sam off, but Sam's having none of it.

"Dean, you just collapsed. If you're not going to the doctor, you at least need my help to get out to the car." Sam says firmly. Dean begrudgingly leans up against him, lets Sammy support his weight.

"Just be gentle, Sammy," he says.

Sam is surprised. He expects a fight. He expects Dean to tell him they're not allowed to take anything but the Impala. He expects Dean to tell Sam that he's driving home. But that's not the case. So Sam loads Dean into the car and gets into the drivers seat, and turns towards home. He's glad he doesn't have to work tonight, because he's seriously worried about Dean. And tonight, he just wants to stay home, look after his brother.

"So are you ready to tell me what's wrong yet?" Sam asks, the words coming out a bit harsher than he means them to. But in a way, he is mad. Mad at Dean for keeping this stuff from him.

"Because sooner or later, the truth is going to come out. And what are you going to do Dean? You can't protect me from everything. For god's sake, just tell me already," he snaps. Dean's head is against the window, and Sam isn't even sure if he's listening anymore.

Dean is happy when he's sitting down in a car, going home. Because all he can think about is crawling into his bed, and sleeping until the next day. He's so exhausted. He doesn't want dinner, doesn't want a shower. Hell he doesn't even want to take his coveralls off. He just wants to get into bed and sleep like the dead. He leans his head against the window, the cool just seeping beneath his skin. It's a relaxing feeling. He enjoys the silence for a few moments. Until Sam decides to start ranting at him. And yeah, in a deep, twisted way, he deserves every word Sam's throwing at him. But Sam doesn't understand. It's Dean's job to protect him. So he listens to Sam, without saying anything. And when Sam stops, looks at him like he's expecting a response, Dean sighs.

"You done?" he asks, his tone maddeningly flat. Sam nods curtly.

"I'm protecting you yes. But you also don't need to know right now. Because once you know, the world knows. And I don't need them to know my personal secrets," Dean tells Sam, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his knee. He wants to go to his pocket for the pack of smokes he keeps there. But he knows Sam has the same general rule as him. Cars are not a place to be smoking.

"There's a pretty big gap between me knowing and the whole world knowing," Sam says after a few beats of silence.

"Don't worry about it Sam,"

"It's my job to worry Dean. Don't just tell me to stop,"

"You're wrong Sam. I should be the one doing the worrying. I'm your older brother. Can we stop talking about this now?" He asks, running a hand over his face. Sam lets out a long breath, and Dean runs a hand over his face. He just wants to curl up.

"You haven't been sleeping well." It's a statement not a question, and Dean's head jerks to look at Sam. The reaction is all Sam needs. He knows that Dean's starting to fall apart. Those walls are starting to crumble.

"Doesn't matter," Dean mumbles as they pull into the driveway. Dean's out of the car and up the front steps before Sam can even get to the other side of the car. That speaks volumes between the two of them.

When Sam gets into the house, he sees Dean paused in the kitchen, taking in the now cold burgers and fries. He turns to Sam, a genuine smile on his face.

"You…" he pauses, then settles for briefly hugging Sam.

"Thanks Sammy. But, uhm," He scratches the back of his neck, and Sam waits for him to continue.

"I'm tired. I'm gonna go to bed." He knows it'll take a while for him to fall asleep. Sam smiles, nods.

"I understand Dean. I'll still be here tomorrow." Sam says with a gentle smile. And Dean wanders aimlessly down the hallway to his room, not bothering to close the door. He unzips his coveralls, lets them drop to the floor, takes off his pants, and crawls into bed, wearing nothing but black boxers and a black t-shirt.

Dean tries to sleep, but it's restless. He's tossing and turning. He's too cold, he's too warm. He's too uncomfortable and he hurts. That's the biggest problem. A frustrated groan escapes his lips. He's aching all over. His shoulder and his hip hurts. But he's so exhausted. There's a knock, and Dean turns to glance at his door, blinking his eyes owlishly. Sam is there, a looming shadow in his doorway.

"Dean. You crawled into bed hours ago. Your tossing and turning has kept me up since then, what's going on?" Sam asks, his voice gravelly from sleep.

"Can't sleep. Hurts," Dean groans out, shifting positions yet again. Sam rolls his eyes, and before he thinks about what he's doing, he's crossed the threshold, and is looming over Dean's bed.

"Can I help?" Sam asks, his voice not so much concerned as tired, and maybe a little bit annoyed.

"Go back to sleep," Dean grumbles, trying another position of sleeping. That one's not working either.

"Dean, what part of I can't sleep with you making that noise don't you understand?" Sam asks, unable to help the grin that slides across his features.

"Fuck off," Dean grumbles into his pillow.

"Awh, does someone need a hug?" Sam asks as he crawls into the bed beside his brother. Dean stiffens as Sam moves under the covers.

"Sammy, what're you doing?"

"Relax Dean. It's called snuggling. It generally makes sleep more comfortable."

And when Sam moves his arm under Dean's shoulder, drapes the other over Dean's stomach, and entwines their legs, Dean suddenly feels more comfortable. Sammy's body is warm against his, and it cushions some of the ache he's feeling deep in his bones. But he can't help having the last word.

"What are you? An octopus?" He asks Sam. He feels Sam smile against his shoulder, and he drifts off into a deep sleep.

**A/N: I know this last part is kind of out of character. But…it's adorable so I'm sure that makes up for it. I was going to reveal what's wrong in this chappie, but the way it went, it didn't work that way. I'm getting this done a heck of a lot faster then I thought I would. I want to thank you all for your reviews again. And just as a warning, I'm working all week, so you guys MAY have to wait a bit longer for the next update. Thanks for sticking around and reading this. Love you all and goodnight. **


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**A/N: Listen to "A Drop In the Ocean" by Ron Pope while reading this chappie. I'm working on compiling a playlist for this fic as well. That song will be on it. I just…see it working.**

_It's Just a drop in the ocean, _

_A change in the weather_

_I was praying that you and me might end up together_

_It's like wishing for rain as I stand in the desert_

_But I'm holding you closer than most_

_Cause you are my heaven_

_-A Drop In the Ocean by Ron Pope_

When Sam wakes up, Dean is no longer snuggled close to him. The bed is empty, save for messy sheets. Weird. He knows that Dean isn't supposed to be going to work. He listens for the sound of the shower, doesn't hear it. Listens for footsteps, doesn't hear those either. He hauls himself out of bed, more concerned for Dean's well being than for the unmade bed. He checks his room first, and Dean's not there. So then it's the bathroom, checks the shower to make sure Dean didn't collapse there. The kitchen, the living room, the basement. Dean's not there. He checks out the patio doors. Dean's not out there either. So he checks out the front door. Sure enough, Dean's sitting on the front step, smoking a cigarette, a portable radio sitting beside him.

"Dean," Sam says, leaning up against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

"Sam," Dean says. His tone an invitation as he looks up at Sam's face. He looks tired still. But a bit more relaxed then he did yesterday.

"I didn't know you smoked," Sam said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, this? 's nothing," Dean says, snubbing it out on the step and throwing it away.

"Sit down. It's a beautiful morning,"

Sam knows that's the only invitation he'll get. So he folds his lanky frame onto the step beside Dean, not caring that he's only in his boxers and a t-shirt. It's still fairly early, so there aren't a lot of people out. They sit in silence for a little while, the music playing faintly from the radio the only noise filling the void between them.

Even after last night, when they were closer than they've ever been, it still feels like they're on different planes. Dean's not telling Sam what's wrong. And Sam is legitimately longing to know what's wrong. Because he wants to make everything okay.

"Dean, talk to me," Sam says, his voice pleading. His gaze shifts from the street to Dean's face. Dean is silent, a pillar as always. His gaze still fixed on his street, a few emotions twitching across his face. But when he turns to Sam, he's got a strained smile on his face, one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Funny, I was thinking we didn't have to talk about this," Dean says, with a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Sam, you haven't gotten me to talk about it yet. What, you think a few over night snuggles is going to make me talk?" He says. Sam recoils as if he's been hit.

"You really think that's what this is about Dean. You think I just snuggled with you to get stuff out of you? You're so fucking wrong it's not even funny," Sam snaps.

"Well, it certainly doesn't look that way," Dean growls.

"Well what the fuck would you know Dean? You've been sitting here in a fucking cocoon of your misery. You're completely oblivious to what's going on with everything around you. I'm worried SICK about you Dean." Sam says, before standing up.

"You know what. Forget it. Don't even worry about it. I'm going to go take a shower and get ready. Then you can get ready and we're going grocery shopping," Sam says. He slams the front door so hard that it makes Dean jump and it echoes through the neighbourhood.

Dean knows he should go and apologize. He's being a dick, because he's torn up about what happened with Sam. His brother's not supposed to come into his bed, not supposed to hold him, not supposed to make him feel things. He's on a fast-track to hell, and Dean really can't afford to go falling for someone. Especially not his brother. But he knows he's going to have to do something to make up for it. He just…can't bring himself to tell Sammy what's wrong. He can't tell Sammy that he's dying. He'll just have to pretend for another day to be normal. Another day and he's okay. He can go back into the garage tomorrow and Sam will go around oblivious to what's wrong for another day. And Dean's okay with that. He runs his hands over his face. When did it get so hard to keep this a secret? Maybe it that moment when he let Sam see his weakness, let Sam hold him. He just wants to stop thinking about it. So he stands up, takes one more glance around, and enters the house, closing the door quietly behind himself. He hears the shower shut off, and hears Sam's footsteps, loud, echoing in the hallways. Sam's still mad. Dean hangs his head; only he has the ability to push his brother away like that. He walks down the hall, knocks on Sam's door, before pushing it open.

"Sam?" Dean says to his brother's naked back. Sam turns around, adjusting the towel around his waist.

"Christ Dean, haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

But Dean's ashamed to say that he's somewhat distracted by a drop of water trailing down Sam's chest, and disappearing beneath the towel.

"Dean?" Sam asks, his tone coloured with annoyance. Dean's eyes jerk back to Sam's face and he nods distractedly.

"Sam, I'm…."

"Don't worry about it. Just go get ready and close the door please," Sam says coldly. Dean sighs, backs out of the room and closes the door. It's going to be like that then. He wanders back to his room and paws through his closet.

Sam lets out a sigh as he lets the towel drop to the floor and starts to change. He couldn't forgive Dean as easily as he wanted to. He loves his brother. But sometimes, there are lines that need to be drawn. And honestly, right now, Sam is still too insulted that Dean doesn't think Sam is mature enough, old enough, and strong enough to hear his secret. He shoves the dresser drawer shut harder than he should, and pulls a v-neck over his head, buttons up his jeans, and fixes his hair in the mirror. He's ready to go. They have no food in the house, so the grocery shopping has to be done. And as strained as it will possibly be, they have to go together. Because Dean likes unhealthy food, and Sam is still a bit of a health nut. But now? Now Sam just wants to forgo the grocery shopping. He'd much rather close himself up in his room and read a book. He hasn't read in a while. But, owning a house with your older brother who is sick with some unknown thing takes responsibility. Sam tucks his wallet into his pocket, and leaves his room. Dean's lurking by the front door, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt with a plaid shirt layered over that, and his leather jacket.

"Sam, where's the Impala?" he asks, annoyed.

"Left it at the garage, you can get it tomorrow," Sam says shortly, and he pulls his shoes on.

"Lets go,"

The car ride to the grocery store is quiet, music yet again filling the void between them. Sam just doesn't want to talk. And obviously, neither does Dean. Dean is content with tapping a cigarette on his knew, and Sam can tell that his irritation is rising at not driving the Impala.

"Dude, calm the fuck down," Sam finally snaps at Dean, and Dean looks at him with hollow eyes, the movement of his fingers stilling.

"What?" Dean asks, tilting his head.

"You, that cigarette. You're annoyed you can't drive aren't you?" Sam asks him. Dean's shaking his head before Sam can even get to the end of the sentence.

"I didn't even realize I'd been doing it," He said, tucking the cigarette behind his ear and staring vacantly out the windshield.

"Sam, I am sorry," He says with a long sigh.

"I know Dean. It's just…getting harder and harder. You're not telling me what's going on. And I…I can't just having you collapsing on me all the time. Whatever it is, you need to get it fixed," Sam says. It feels like he's lecturing a child.

"It's not that easy, Sam," Dean says, and the calm tone of voice is almost chilling.

"What do you mean?" Sam asks, pulling into a parking stall and shutting off the car.

"Just what it sounds like,"

They go their own separate ways in the grocery store for a while. Dean picking out things that he wants, Sam picking out the things that he wants. Dean's basket is filled with alcohol, painkillers, hamburgers, and other such objects. He plans on paying for all the painkillers separately. He doesn't want Sam knowing that he's in pain. Sam is going for the fruits and vegetables. He's got a hand on an apple, testing to see if it's good, when he hears a scream. Years of his hunter training come into play, and the basket falls from his hand and he's sprinting down the aisles, trying to find where the scream is coming from. He smells it before he sees it. The smell of alcohol is filling the air. He turns down the aisle and sees exactly what he doesn't want to see. There's an overturned basket, broken bottles lying on the ground. And there's Dean, lying in a pool of alcohol, unconscious. Some woman is there, still screaming, pointing. She's making a spectacle of herself, and people are stopping, muttering. There are concerned faces. But Sam doesn't care. He's sprinting down the aisle. He bodily moves the woman out of the way.

"Shut UP!" He roars at her, before kneeling beside Dean. He grabs his older brother's shoulders, shakes him.

"Dean. GODDAMNIT, DEAN." He shouts, his voice breaking.

"Someone. Someone call a fucking ambulance," he says. He's clearing away the bottles, ignoring the shards that slice into his hands. His entire body is shaking. He grabs his brother's hand holds on like it's his lifeline.

"Dean, please wake up. Please," he begs, pleads, wheedles with his brother. But there's not even a stir of an eyelid. And the paramedics get there, and they move Sam to the side.

"NO, don't take him from me dammit," he lets out a soft sob as his voice breaks. Someone holds him back as they load Dean onto the stretcher, and as they start to wheel him away, Sam breaks free, runs after Dean.

"At least let me come with. Please," Sam begs, breathless. One of the paramedics looks at him, looks at the tears streaming down his face, the look of desperation.

"You can ride with your boyfriend in the ambulance."

And Sam is just so thankful that he doesn't bother to correct them. He's placed out of the way, but in a place that he can still hold on to Dean's hand. He watches as they pull the oxygen mask over Dean's face, they check his pulse, they make sure he's okay. And then they turn away, muttering in low voices. Sam doesn't care. He's just praying, hoping, trying. He's fighting back the tears that are threatening to overflow. He doesn't want to be weak. Because now it's his turn to be strong for Dean.

They settle him into a hospital room, and Sam is by his side as much as they allow him to be. And finally, Sam settles into a chair beside Dean's bed, laces his fingers with his brothers, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

"Mister Winchester?" a voice rouses him from his light sleep, and he looks up to see a doctor, standing there with a cup of coffee in his hand.

"It's Sam," he says instinctively, standing up and offering his hand to the doctor.

"Doctor Jamison. I brought you this, you look like you could use it," He says, holding out the cup of coffee. Sam takes it gratefully, and takes a sip. It's black. Not his favourite, but he'll drink it regardless.

"Thanks," he says with a nod. The doctor's expression drops into something a bit grimmer.

"Sam, I need to talk to you about something. If you'll come out into the hallway with me," Dr. Jamison tells him. Sam is confused, but he follows the doctor to the hallway.

"Sam, I need to talk to you about your boyfriend. Are you aware that he's had Leukaemia for what appears to be over a year?"

The coffee cup slips from Sam's hand, hits the floor with a splash. Sam doesn't bother to correct him, simply because it doesn't matter anymore.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," His voice is broken, and he leans back against the wall, slides to the floor, and buries his face in his hands.


	6. Sorry

Sorry. This will be getting your hopes up. I haven't been overly muse-y lately. But I'm going to try and get a new chapter out soon. I really appreciate all your reviews and your favourites and adding my story to your alerts.

Sincerely

ThisSong'sNotToHurtYou


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